


coming out of my cage, and I've been doing just fine

by garcconne



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Drunk Sex, Humour, JAMES IS A DRUNK GAY DISASTER, M/M, implied one-sided sheith but not really, team MFE is tired of James' nonsense, terrible attempts at flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2019-06-30 06:08:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15745830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/garcconne/pseuds/garcconne
Summary: For once in his life, James decides to relax and let loose. For once in his life, he decides to get drunk. This seems like a great decision, until Keith shows up at the bar and all his friends summarily decide to betray him.





	coming out of my cage, and I've been doing just fine

Everyone in the resistance was so exhausted, that the first few days after Sendak’s defeat were spent simply on sweeping through the destruction in its wake,  picking up the pieces, unable to truly enjoy their victory. The MFEs were lucky to have all survived the battle relatively unscathed. James is proud of them. Combat experience has made them brothers and sisters in arms, _good_ _friends_ even, something he’d never really had. Associates, perhaps, but not friends.

James no longer has clearance to sit in on meetings but from what Veronica relays to him, he knows that the war against the Galra is nowhere near from over, that Sendak was only one being and that whoever sent the silver mech was still out there, preparing for another fight.

But two months on - the Earth was now a hub of alien rebellion, the Voltron paladins had all woken up and recovered from their injuries, and the war didn’t feel so immediate anymore. He decides on relaxing and letting loose for once in his life. For once in his life, he decides to get drunk.  

To his surprise it’s Leifsdottir who forst suggests that they go to a bar, just the MFE pilots and Veronica. They’ve been granted leave in two weeks time, and before they all go their separate ways, they decide to have one last hurrah, and get raging, shitfaced drunk. After all, they’ve not only survived an alien invasion, but fought it and _won_. That had to count for something.

 

* * *

 

 

Voltron and Atlas were the current faces of victory. But those years before Voltron, they’d been humanity’s last hope, it had been _them_ leading the fight, landing hits where no one else in the _world_ could. They were no longer fresh-faced cadets, obediently following Iverson and Holt. They were pilots _,_ soldiers with combat experience, they were _war heroes_ with their faces plastered all over the news.

The moment their team entered the bar, the barman had stared them dead in the eye, and told them every drink they’d have was on the house. To their embarrassment, he rallied his patrons into a cheer for the ‘brave Garrison MFE pilots’, and afterwards, even with the open bar, strangers were sending trays of shots and drinks their ways.

Not even halfway through the night, in their corner booth, James can feel that he’s completely plastered. And he’s not the only one.

“So who remembers when Keith Kogane absolutely levelled Griffin in first year,” says Rizavi, an arm slung around Veronica, who can’t stop giggling into her shoulder. Across the table, Kinkade starts snickering, _the dirty traitor_.

“He was so little back then. So short. Look at him now, a funky buff half-alien man.”

“He’s half-alien?,” James says, trying his best to fake disinterest.  

“Yes, half-Galran. The tall alien woman with the Blade of Marmora is his mother,” Leifsdottir explains, her freckled cheeks flushed and rosy.

“Hey,” Veronica says, with a twinkle in her eye that James does not like the look of. “Do you think he’s entirely uh, human. Anatomically. Y’know.”

She tries to wink, but ends up blinking. James wants to scream.

“I bet you anything Captain Shirogane would know,” Rizavi adds.

“I bet you anything James would like to know,” Kinkade continues. Their table explodes with laughter, and Veronica nearly spills their jug of beer over herself.  

 _Traitors, all of them_ , he thinks.   

He can’t join in their laughter, not because of his humiliating, _definitely non-existent_ crush on Keith Kogane, but because he’s now thinking of Keith and Shiro, that dynamic duo, enemies to his sanity and emotional wellbeing.  

All the liquor he’s had roils around in his stomach, his head dizzy with an unwelcome storm of emotions.

Thoughts of Keith and Shirogane aren’t new to him, they’re well-worn and rounded thoughts, smoothed out like pebbles sitting at the bottom of a riverbed.

Those two have haunted James for years since that day with the sim in middle school, all the way through their time at the Garrison, brought into sharp focus when everyone began talking about Adam Westfield breaking up with Shirogane. Those months leading up to the Kerberos launch, he watched those two from afar, seeing _everything_ in how they spoke to each other, soft and quiet, how they sat next to each other in the mess hall, shoulder to shoulder, and he’d wondered, oh how he’d _wondered_.

His grip tightens around his beer, and he can’t tell if his palms are sweaty, or if it’s just the condensation on his glass.

He should be above this. He’s a soldier of the Galaxy Garrison, a decorated _war hero_ , he can have whoever the hell he wants, he should be above the sinking ball of insecurities that he calls his _feelings_ towards Keith.

James slams back the rest his drink in one gulp.

“Can we talk about anything or anyone other than Keith fucking Kogane - ”

His friends go quiet. But they haven’t gone quiet in response to him. Because life is cruel and god hates him.

“Hi James,” Keith says. He gives the rest of the table a nod. “Everyone.”

He’s standing behind him, relaxed and unassuming, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, _a new one,_ James thinks. It looks good on him, fits his broadened shoulders well, hugging his arms and torso in a way that should be inappropriate.

 _How dare he_ , he thinks.

What Keith says next is not what James expects to hear.

“Can I talk to you?”

The man stares at him with an unreadable expression.

He glances over at his team. Their barely stifled giggles will haunt him for a while, the soundtrack to the never-ending humiliating nightmare he will have about this -

“Alone?”

He does everything in his power to control the flush that rises through his neck, to the tip of his ears, but apparently his body has decided to betray him as well.

“No,” he blurts out. “Whatever you want to say, say it in front of them.” He gestures wildly at the others. In no way was he letting Keith corner him into a casual, one-on-one interaction. He’s done everything in his power to avoid such a conversation to this point, and he isn’t about to have one while he’s _wasted_.

And of course this hell night would get much, much worse,

“It’s alright,” Veronica says, brightly. “We’ll give you guys some privacy”

She attempts to wink, this time at Keith, and she ends up blinking _again_. The man’s only response is a furrowed brow.

Veronica stands up on wobbly legs, followed by Rizavi and Leifsdottir, and they all stumble out of their seats. James makes sure to give each and every one of them the most venomous scowl he can muster. Kinkade is the last to go, but before he leaves, he leans over to mock whisper:

“Don’t forget to use protection.”

He’s going to kill them. He’s going to flatten them all with a Garrison jeep. Kinkade, the motherfucker, is going to go first.

  

* * *

 

Unperturbed by the treachery playing out before him, Keith slides into the seat opposite him, and takes his jacket off. The simple, black tee he’s wearing underneath does little to hide the muscle definition on his chest, and that dumb mullet he’s always sported is longer than ever, yet he somehow makes it look good. The man pulls off buff and pretty at the same time. He hates it. James balls his hands into tight fists. He will _not_ let himself get caught ogling Keith, he _will not_.

“Look, I don’t know how to do this,” Keith starts, “but if I can make up with Iverson, I can make up with you.”  

His expression is so earnest that James chokes on his own spit a little.

“You’ve been ignoring me since we defeated the invasion.”

“I didn’t realise we were friends,” James retorts. He takes one of the shot glasses and downs some tequila. If he’s going to have this talk, he needs to fortify himself with something stronger.

“We couldn’t have won the war without you. You’ve really become a great pi-”

“I don’t need your empty praise, Kogane,” he says, cutting him off. He’d rather die than put up with any condescension, especially coming from _Keith_ of all people.

Craving death, he downs another shot. Across the table, Keith continues to stare at him, the shameless asshole. He’s drunk, and he knows he’s getting drunker, the tequila going straight to his head. _Fuck it, just fuck it._ If the guy wants to talk, they’ll have a _talk._

He has a rant, ready in his mind.

This is what comes out instead:

“Why do you even want to speak to me,” James starts. His eyes feel hot. “Why are you even here? I was a dick to you in middle school. I was an even bigger dick to you at the Garrison. Yeah, you were an arrogant shit but -”

Keith reaches over and grabs his hand. The shock of contact, his cold sweaty palm against Keith’s, shuts him right up.

“We were dicks to each other. I’m the one who punched you, remember?”

“I brought up your parents when _you were an orphan._ ”

He stops, breathless. They’re still holding hands. Everything about this scenario is surreal.  

“Well, you didn’t know,” he says. “And I found my mom in space. She was an alien this whole time.”

“Yeah, I heard. It explains so much.”

Hysteria bubbles up in his chest, and before he knows it, he’s laughing. He's laughing and Keith is laughing with him. Somehow after everything that has transpired, it feels appropriate that they’d finally have a proper talk about everything in the corner of a dingy bar full of people who’d recognise their faces in a heartbeat, but wouldn't know that they were once just two dumb boys dreaming of reaching the stars, dreaming of belonging to something where they’d be wanted and needed.

“I’m sorry,” he says, hiccuping. “You don’t have to forgive me, but I’m sorry, Keith. I don’t want you to hate me.”

The moment those words leave his lips, James regrets everything. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind his responsible, sober self is having a screaming fit, _you might as well have admitted to Keith that you_ -

What he doesn't expect is a small smile directed his way, bright and blinding. It’s like the clouds have parted, giving way to the sun, the sun being Keith’s affection directed at him, only him, and no one else.

He thinks he’s about to get a headache, but not even that can ruin this moment, because he’s been yearning for this for so long, and he only realises then, with complete clarity, how _much_ he’s wanted the ridiculous man in front of him.

“You’re a real mess, Griffin,” Keith says, voice imbued with a certain fondness he has no _right_ to direct at him. “And you know, I don’t hate you.”

Those last four words are like a hit to the solar plexus. There’s nothing extraordinary about them, out of context. Really, they should be an expected thing between two people who at that point, shared a functional working relationship. Maybe he’s being just a _little_ emotional.

Perhaps, realising the absurdity of it all, Keith withdraws his hand, leaving James feeling a little bare and stupid, and he curls in on himself, letting the fire of thoughts in his head disperse.  

“You’ve saved my skin during this fight, you looked out for me when you didn’t have to. That means something,” Keith continues, casually stealing Rizavi’s abandoned pint.

There’s a certain intensity to his regard, and James isn’t quite sure what it means. All he can do is watch the lines of Keith’s throat as he downs the drink, the bob of his Adam’s apple, and shamefully file away that image for later consideration.

Feeling articulate for once, he responds: “you’re the leader of Voltron, saviour of Earth, we’d spent the last three years being told that Voltron was our only hope. If my job was to save Earth, then it was my job to save you.”

He runs his hands through his hair, already feeling the gel coming unstuck, his fringe flopping over his eyes. He avoids looking up at the man in front of him, hoping that he’s said enough to salvage what little remains of his dignity. Breaking down to near tears in front of your once mortal enemy turned crush isn’t high on the list of dignified things he’s done.

“Your job, huh,” Keith says, tilting his head. “You were always a stickler for following orders.”

“And you weren’t,” he bites back, but there’s no heat to it. “So what now, Kogane?”

When he raises his head, he tries his hardest to project a steadiness he doesn’t feel. This whole conversation has been a rug pulled from beneath his feet. Keith is there, meeting him halfway, shrugging at him with crinkled eyes and a toothy grin, and that’s when James realises something even more unbelievable. The guy _wants_ him.

“Come home with me?”

If he was breathless before, he’s pretty sure he’s about to go into cardiac arrest now. He needs to get his act together and sober the fuck up. There’s more he wants to ask, like say, _what the hell is up with you and Captain Shirogane and does he know about this,_ or, _are you taking the piss?_ Or,   _wait, when did this happen?_

“I can hear you thinking.”

“Shut up” he responds. “I didn’t say no, you know.”

_Lord._

 

* * *

  

It turns out Keith rode out to town on a battered old hoverbike, because _of course he did_. Keith doing the most to maintain a pseudo bad boy image? Must be a day ending in y.

“Need a ride?” He asks, throwing a spare helmet at him with a suggestive smirk.

James may be a drunk mess, but his physical faculties haven’t quite left him yet. He catches the helmet as smoothly as he can, training his face to something neutral.

“You better not crash the fucking bike, Kogane,” he says.

There’s something glorious about Keith slinging his legs over the seat, because oh, he did have long legs. This time, he lets the other man catch him unabashedly staring.

“I’m not the one who’s wasted. Are you joining me or what?”

Never one to back down from a challenge, James does his best to throw a smirk back, although it comes across more as a snarl. He clambers aboard, leaning into Keith until his chest is flush against his back, wrapping his hands around his waist, pressing so close he can feel his ass through the thin fabric of his skinny jeans. There’s a chance he may be half-hard already, and he buries any embarrassment deep down, because Keith started this and there’s no way he’s going to be too _chicken_.

To his satisfaction, the other man shudders underneath him. Taking it a step further he leans in, to whisper,

“Are you gonna drive or do you want me to take over?”

In response, Keith revs the engine. “You better hold on tight, Griffin.”

And with barely a second for James to respond, they’re speeding off into the night.

 

* * *

 

After the night he’s had, James isn’t going to lie any longer and deny the fact that he’s had this fantasy so many times, that the fact that he’s living it is both _freaking him out_ and leaving him exhilarated at the same time.

Keith has him flat against the door to his room, a thigh firmly pressed between his legs, and he’s kissing him with the kind of aggression his wet dreams are made of. He’s imagined this, how messy it would be, and when Keith draws away to take a quick breath, he takes the opportunity to suck on his bottom lip and bite down, drawing blood. Keith lets out a whine, because of course he’s a kinky bastard.

When he gets the chance to, he pushes a hand under his shirt to feel up those _abs_ , and pushes back, back until Keith’s knees hit the edge of the bed and he’s sitting in his lap, leg on either side. He’s beyond hard right now, all the blood in his head has rushed down to his dick and he’s beyond lightheaded. Underneath him, he can feel Keith, straining through his jeans, and he rolls his hips, and gets rewarded with a moan.

He grasps at that ridiculous mullet of Keith’s, tipping his head back and sucking at the pale skin of his neck, as Keith continues to move against him and moan so loudly that James wonders if he’s going to come in his pants. Of course he would be loud, of course that exhibitionist streak he’s had in class would carry into sex.

James mouths at the now purpling hickey with a savage satisfaction, hoping the rest of the Garrison would be able to see it the next day, peeking over the collar of his uniform, and wonder who it was giving it to Keith. He scrapes his teeth against Keith’s throat, and thinks: _why stop at one?_ And gets right to work.

The entirety of Keith’s collarbone is soon littered with a variety of bruises, and James sits back to admire his handiwork. But before he can start on another, Keith wraps his legs around his waist and flips him over, pinning him to the bed with his thighs. His long hair hangs around his face, and he’s looking at him like he wants to eat him.

He slides down his body, down and down, until he’s unbuttoning James’ pants and tugging them and his briefs to his knees, and James is about to have a panic attack over how many times he’s jerked off to this exact scenario, and now it’s _happening._ His dick bobs in the air, and Keith is right there, nuzzling at it, sinking his hot mouth down. He’s looking up at him with determination, as he takes more of his dick in, and James hitches his breath, because this is ridiculous and he’s never been more turned on in his _life._

“Fu- fuck fuck, oh fuck,”

It turns out like everything else, apparently, Keith is brilliant at giving head. And it’s his turn to become a whimpering mess, his hips held down in a vice grip that’s going to definitely leave a mark. His vision is so, so close to whiting out, when Keith rises, wiping the drool and precum off his chin, and brackets his head with both arms and leans in for another kiss.

He can taste himself on the drag of Keith’s tongue, and he licks it away, sighing into his mouth as he scrambles to lift the shirt off his back. There’s a desperation to Keith too, as they both struggle to get undressed while furiously kissing, hot against each other, and finally, _finally_ James manages to get his socks off his feet, because there’s no way he’s having sex with _Keith_ for the first time while still wearing _socks_.

Nothing is happening yet, but James can’t stop whimpering like the sad almost virgin he is. Keith flips him onto his stomach and holds his wrists to his lower back, sucking open mouthed kisses into the base of his neck and down his spine, until he can’t stop squirming under his grip.

Look, he was focused on keeping his grades up, then the war started, and it’s not like he hasn’t had offers at all but he didn’t have the time for it, _okay._

With his face half pressed into a pillow, he peers up at Keith reaching for lube and condoms in his bedside drawer. The guy seems to know what he’s doing, and that sends his brain into overdrive. _Who did he fuck in space?_

“Hey Griffin,” he says, leaning down to murmur into the shell of his ear, and taking a nip. “I’m gonna make you _scream_.”

It takes a certain effort for him to respond.

“Yeah? You wanna bet on it?”

That earns him another sloppy kiss, and he loses himself in it, so much so that he doesn’t notice the pop of a cap and Keith’s hand sliding up his thigh, gasping when he feels a slick finger, probing at his entrance. One knuckle turns into two, one finger into two, scissoring and spreading him and oh, of course this is better than anything he’d attempt alone -

“You’re so tight,” Keith murmurs, his other hand pushing his legs apart and settling between them, and the weight of him, his cock dragging a wet streak all over his back, have James beyond overwhelmed already. His own dick is trapped between him and the bed, aching to be touched, but ignored.

“Where’d you learn your dirty talk -” he gasps when Keith find his prostate, and starts pressing against it, “- a bad - porno?”

In response, Keith works in a third finger, and James keens, arching into the bed at the sensation of fullness. It’s too much -  everything is too much, and he just wants to come already, but he knows he’ll die from embarrassment if he comes before he’s even had a chance to touch Keith. Tears are already pricking at his eyes, and he just needs _more_.

“Please,” he says, muffled into the pillow. Keith stops.

“Please, what?”

God, he sounds so self-satisfied. James hates him, he takes back what he said before, _he hates him._ But right now, his head is cloudy with pleasure and drunkenness, and the only thinking he’s doing is coming from his dick.

“Please,” he says, with a sob, “ _fuck me,_ Keith.”

It feels like a sudden loss when Keith’s fingers leave him. He takes the opportunity to push himself over, onto his back, and finally gets to take a good look at the other man. His fringe is stuck to his forehead with sweat, his cheekbones ruddy, his eyes completely dark, no blue to be seen. He’s so goddamn _pretty_.

“Who’s sounding like a bad porno now?” Keith replies, with a smile.

James sits up and wraps his arms around his neck, kissing him messily, all tongue and teeth. Determined, he pulls himself up, and gingerly lines up with Keith’s cock, swallowing a groan when the head slips in through the first ring of muscle.

“You -” Keith says, “you can slow down - _oh -_ ”

He chokes on the end of his sentence, as James pushes, taking more and more of his length in. It’s a lot for him - almost too much, the fullness that he’s unused to, and the burn because he hasn’t stretched enough, but it’s somehow just _right_ for there to be a bit of pain between the two of them. He’s breathless and gasping into Keith’s shoulder by the time he bottoms out, his ass pressed against his lap, hands clawing along his back.

They take a moment, before he starts slowly grinding his hips, and Keith starts fucking up into him in shallow thrusts, nipping at his pulse point, softly moaning into the crook of his neck.

It takes a while before James feels comfortable enough to lift up and deepen the motion, riding Keith as hard as he can. There isn’t a rhythm, not really, until a sharp thrust hits his prostate and James lets out a sob. And then Keith is hitting it again, and again, and he’s wailing.

Everything is on the right side of desperate, neither of them willing to slow down. Keith has a hand between them, trying to stroke James off to the time of him rocking his hips down, making so much noise that someone listening in would think he was the one getting fucked. They’re both noisy, panting messes at this point, and there’s no skill to what they’re doing.

Coming takes him by surprise, a blinding jolt, and to his dismay, he screams.

At least Keith doesn’t take long to follow, falling boneless against James as he empties himself inside him.

His throat feels raw, and everything hurts, but the euphoria is still thrumming in his veins, the same feeling he gets after surviving a perilous dogfight. Keith rests his head against his shoulder, making no move to pull out. He threads his fingers through his soft hair, gleaming in the moonlight.

Everything is so quiet in the aftermath, and a small voice in his head wonders if Keith is going to ask him to leave.

He doesn’t though.

It takes them a while to move apart and collapse onto the bed, and it takes him by surprise when Keith gives his forehead a soft kiss before heading off to his ensuite to find a clean towel.

He waits for the other shoe to drop, but it doesn’t. They don’t talk, instead James ends up spooning Keith, warm like a furnace, and they fall asleep just like that, side by side.

 

* * *

 

The next morning has James waking up, hangover in full effect, his entire body as sore as it’s ever been. He doesn’t want to leave, until he realises whose bed he’s in.

Keith is fast asleep next to him, and he can’t help but take a second to watch his sleeping face, tamping down the treacherous emotions bubbling up in his chest.

It would be rude to leave without saying goodbye - or a thank you? - he’s not entirely sure. But he thinks of the walk of shame he’s going to have to make back to his rooms, and he knows he needs to _leave_ before anyone else on the base, _namely his team_ , finds him leaving the paladin’s dorm

They would never let him live this down.

He tries his hardest to get up without waking Keith, but his efforts are in vain. There’s some confusion on his face, a brief pause, before he asks, “- James? Where are you -”

“I have to report to the hangar at 0800 hours,” he lies, leaning down to peck Keith on the lips, dry, gross morning mouth and all.

Having never been in this situation, he’s lost for words. They should talk about whatever last night was, but his head hurts and all James can think of is Shirogane, sleeping only a few rooms down.

But he was raised with manners, so he tells him, “Uh, thanks for last night?”

Keith’s gaze shutters, his expression goes blank, and it sends dread running down his spine.

The man goes silent and stays silent, as James dresses himself in yesterday’s civvies, and he hopes that it’s because he’s gone back to sleep, not because he’s now _angry_ at him. Not even his clothes can hide how he smells. He stinks like sex and beer and shame.

“Bye Keith,” he murmurs at the doorway, and gets nothing in response.

Well, at least he gets his wish, and doesn’t bump into anyone until he’s safe in his own room, a building away. But there’s an awful sensation blooming in his chest, and James doesn’t know if he can blame it on the hangover.  
 

* * *

 

A 6 hour nap, one hot shower, and one fresh uniform later, James is feeling a lot better, a cup of coffee in his hands as he sits with his team in the mess hall for a late brunch. He relishes the fact that he isn’t the only one suffering. Leifsdottir looks paler than she’s ever been, almost green, and Rizavi hasn’t stopped complaining about her headache for the last half hour. The only one who appears unaffected by their binge drinking is Kinkade, serenely eating his boiled eggs and toast.

“So how did your talk with Keith go last night?” Rizavi asks, massaging her temple in exaggerated circles.

He can feel the tips of his ears reddening, his cheeks heating up, and he frowns. “It went fine. We made up, it was great, we’re friends now. Moving on.”

Rizavi stops to narrow her eyes, peering over her glasses, scrutinising him.

“Like hell we’re moving on, you’re blushing,” she says. Beside her, Kinkade nods.

“Based on your physiological response, and my knowledge of your established behaviour, I too, doubt that all you did was talk,” Leifsdottir adds. They stare at him, expectantly.

The treachery really had no end. This was it, he was asking for a transfer to a different Garrison base. He glares at the runny egg, soaking through the toast on his plate.

“Look, why are you all so _obsessed_ with the ridiculous idea that I might have something for Kogane”

“You kept a wanted poster of him in your advanced physics textbook after he kidnapped Shiro,” Kinkade says, shrugging. Before James can protest, he adds, “and you used to jerk off to him. All the time. Don’t even try to deny, I had to room with you for three years.”

“Fuck you, Ryan.”

The guy had the audacity to look mock offended, with a hand over his heart, as the two girls next to him collapsed into a fit of giggles.

“Anyways, it’s bold of you all to assume he would be interested in me,” he says, viciously stabbing at his toast with a fork, trying not to think about how it felt to hold Keith in his arms.

It should be a warning sign, when they fall silent again, but James had been hoping he could go one whole day without having to deal with the consequences of his actions. He nearly doesn’t notice Keith Kogane, standing at the end of their table, hovering like an angry stormcloud.

“James, can we talk?” He says, short and clipped.

There’s hurt in his eyes he didn’t expect to see, and it fills him with shame. He’s lost for words, and he turns to his friends for support, but they seem gobsmacked as well.

Rizavi’s eyes are wider than dinner plates, even Leifsdottir is stunned. Kinkade keeps glancing between them, steadily mowing down on the piece of toast in his hand.

“Hey Keith,” he says, lowering his voice, “is everything okay?”

“No. You _lied_ this morning.”

“Look I didn’t mean to -”

“You didn’t call either”

The mess hall almost seems quieter, people are definitely staring at them, attempting to listen in. Because the Voltron paladins are a _big deal_ and gossip about them never fails to make its rounds throughout the Garrison, and James already feels exhausted at the prospect of being at the center of such gossip.

“Can we please move this somewhere quieter?” James begs.

Keith is looking at him like he wants to kill him, and with all the alien nonsense he’s witnessed in the past three years, James wouldn’t put it past him to have the power to murder by looks alone. Honestly, he welcomes it. Right now, he absolutely needs the sweet release of death.

On the other side of the hall, he can see the paladins’ table, all of them watching their leader and fellow pilot with bemused grins. Except for Shirogane, whose expression ranges somewhere between pained and murderous, trained right at James, and _god_ if that doesn’t add the cherry on top of the crap sundae he’s been dealt.

The tensest minute of his life passes by as he waits for Keith to answer, to say _anything._

“Fine,” he bites out.

Something like sheer relief washes over him, as he gets up from his seat and tries his best to corral Keith out of the hall to anywhere _else,_ away from prying eyes and ears. He makes the mistake of placing a guiding hand on his lower back.

There’s a loud clatter, the sound of metal hitting lino, and he peeks over his shoulder to find that it’s from Shirogane, dramatically standing up and knocking his chair to the ground, as if he were the maligned hero of a shitty soap opera discovering the fact that his girlfriend has been cheating on him with his brother the whole time.  

What a mess. _What a mess._

 

* * *

 

The relative privacy of an empty corridor is a relief in contrast to the spectacle from before. Whatever tension was there between them in the hall has dissipated somewhat, their short walk has taken the steam out of Keith and it’s calmed James down as well.

They’re standing way closer to each other than is necessary for any kind of polite conversation, he realises, but doesn’t have it in him to step away.

“I didn’t meant to put you on the spot. Back there,” Keith says, avoiding eye contact. “I may have overreacted.”  

“You think?”

Dappled sunlight falls through a window opposite them, and it plays across his dark hair, and James wishes he didn’t find him as lovely as he did, stone cold sober in the unforgiving light of day.

“Captain Shirogane seemed pretty upset back there.”

Keith frowns.

“Well he should know that this is none of his business.”

There’s a bitterness there, a poorly healed over hurt beneath his words that rankles James. But, it’s none of _his_ business. There was a time when he’d wanted nothing more than to know what was between those two. He’d like to think he’s wiser now, and knows better than to get dragged into other people’s  heartbreak.

“That’s good to know.”

It comes out harsher than he intends. He takes a step back, and runs a hand through his hair.

“I didn’t mean to upset you when I left, it was just a strange situation for me and I freaked out,” he adds.

They’ve reached an impasse. The ball is in Keith’s court, he’s said his bit. James wearily readies for the finality of rejection, but instead, Keith takes two steps forward.

“Last night, it’s not something that I do at all,” he says. His gaze snaps to James. “You’re not just _anybody_ to me.”

That, James guesses, is probably the closest thing to a confession he’s going to get. It shouldn’t send his heart aflutter, it really really shouldn’t. He should be better than this, but somehow, he isn’t.

“My friends were making fun of me last night, and they were this morning too,” he ends up blurting out, “about the way I act when it comes to you _.”_

There’s that furrow again, in Keith’s brow, as he shuffles on the spot, uncomfortable. James decides to be brave about his interpersonal nonsense for once, and firmly carries on, “what I’m trying to say is - _you’re not just anybody to me either_.”

It’s not ideal, but it seems to do the trick. The corner of Keith’s mouth twitches, and James is hit with the urge to kiss it away.

With a sudden burst of confidence, he leans in and closes the distance and does exactly that. It’s a relief, when the man under him surges into the kiss, and for once, James thinks things are going to be okay.  
 

* * *

  

When James rejoins his friends in the mess hall, fifteen minutes later, he knows what it looks like: with his collar messily undone, his hair unkempt, lips probably a bit bruised. He tries his hardest not to radiate smugness.

“What the fuck,” says Rizavi, stunned for once in her life. Even Kinkade has the decency to look shocked.

“Did you and Keith talk some more?” Leifsdotter asks, narrowing her eyes.

Even Veronica comes by, leaving her seat at the officer’s table to barrel into their conversation.  

“Did you and Keith Kogane just -”

James takes a sip from his cold coffee, and not even the taste of gritty coffee grounds on his tongue can bring him down. He gives them a smirk. They can read between the lines and suffer.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Rest in fucking pieces, James Griffin's sanity and my sleep schedule.


End file.
